Date: Fri, 13 Jul 2012 05:28:05 -0700 (PDT)
From: Joe Hunter
Subject: Baseball Diamond Tails - 7B
All the usual disclaimers apply:
+This story is a work of fiction. If you think it is real, you have a very
active imagination.
+Do not read this story if you live in an area where it is illegal to do
so.
+Scenes of sexual activity between an adult male and a young boy are
represented. Do not read further if this offends you.
+Please do not imitate the actions portrayed herein - the author cannot
accept responsibility for any actions promoted by this story.
If you would like to get in touch, please e-mail me at:
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Support Nifty! Joe
____________________________
BASEBALL DIAMOND TAILS - 7B
(copyright 2012, Joe Hunter)
:::::::::::::::::::::
Left Field: Part B
:::::::::::::::::::::
After that weekend my relationship with Andy changed, but the differences
were subtle and only apparent to me.
The boy became much more open, as if I had passed some sort of test. He no
longer gave me his appraising looks. Now when I saw him staring at me it
was with trust, and a certain amount of affection. He worked as hard as
ever in practice, and became even more my constant shadow. From time to
time he would even talk with me, although he still remained a boy of few
words. He actually remained after practice several times to tell me about
things he was doing at school. I began to know him better.
On the Friday evening before Opening Day and our first game it was overcast
at the end of practice and I was sure there would be rain before long.
Andy and I put the equipment away hurriedly and then I told him, "Get your
bike over here, I'm taking you home today."
We put his raggedy bike into the back of my truck and then he climbed up in
the front with me. As I had expected, the first drops of rain splattered
on the windshield when we were turning out onto the road. I flipped on my
lights and wipers.
"Thanks, Coach," Andy told me.
"There's no way I'm letting my top draft pick ride home in the rain on that
wreck you've got. How long have you had that bike anyway?"
The boy shrugged uncomfortably. "A couple 'a years. It was a Christmas
present. I've used it a lot. I try to keep it fixed up but I only got a
couple of tools."
I grunted. I was already turning over a plan in my mind.
"You had a nice practice today," I told him. "Heck, you always have a good
practice. How's this team we're playing tomorrow? I haven't had a chance
to see them."
"They got good players." Andy put his legs out in front of him and rubbed
his hands over his tensed thighs. He was wearing a pair of old shorts,
faded and thin from many washings. The rounded muscles in his legs were
outlined under the worn cloth.
"Those aren't the clothes you wear to school, are they?" I knew he came to
practice directly from his school.
"Nah." Andy unzipped his book bag. "I change usually before I come."
From the bag he produced another pair of pants, only marginally newer.
There were two patched holes.
After he put his book bag away he stretched his legs out again and rubbed
them. "I think my legs are getting bigger, Coach."
I reached over and stroked his thigh, feeling hard muscle through the thin
cloth. Andy flexed proudly.
"Yeah, you're definitely beginning to grow," I told him.
"I'll never be very tall though," the boy said resignedly. "My mother's
short."
"What about your dad?"
Andy just shrugged. "I've never seen him. My mother says he was short,
though. She says I look like him."
I kept stroking gently and the boy spread his thighs so I could slide my
hand up the inside of his leg, all the way into his groin. Under the worn
cloth I could feel a hard boyhood bulging in his supporter.
I moved my hand up under his shirt, rubbing the bare smoothness of his
muscular tummy. The boy's tender skin felt like warm satin. Andy pulled
his shirt up to give my hand more room to slide around his small waist and
I slid my fingertips under his shorts onto the tight elastic of his jock.
The boy wiggled closer to me on the seat. He looked around quickly through
the rain-splattered windows and then used both hands to lift the waist of
his shorts and supporter.
"You can go down there," he whispered.
My hand went into the warm dark recess beneath his clothes and found the
boy's rigid boner jutting out from his body. Although only three inches in
length there was a thickness of early development I could feel as I rubbed
with thumb and forefinger, sliding all the way up over the circumcised tip.
Andy leaned back against my side, head arched back and lips parted. I felt
him tighten his butt and his shaft swelled against my fingers. "Feels
good," he whispered.
I drove slowly, stroking and rubbing until we reached his street, and then
while Andy straightened up and rearranged his clothes I pulled into his
trailer's short driveway and took my time unloading his bike. There was a
rundown sedan parked by the trailer just in front of me.
As Andy pushed his bike toward a tiny shed built off the trailer's back end
the door in front opened and a short very fat woman stepped out. It was
impossible to judge her age. She could've been anywhere from 20 to 50. I
walked over to meet her.
"Hi. I'm Andy's coach. I didn't want him to ride home in the rain so I
gave him a lift."
The woman nodded indifferently.
"I was wondering if you had those papers I asked Andy to give you? I have
to give them to the league president. It's for the insurance."
"It's somewhere here," the woman said. She turned back into the trailer,
telling me over her shoulder, "You can come in if you want."
I went up a shaky set of steps and pushed through a sagging door. Andy had
put his bike away and came in behind me. The inside of the trailer was
airless and stank of stale cigarette smoke. The woman was searching
through a pile of magazines and newspapers on a rickety table. I spotted
the baseball insurance forms over on a chair under some clothes.
"I think these are the ones we want," I told her. I stepped over and
retrieved them. They were still unsigned. "Do you have a pen?" I asked.
Andy tugged at my arm. "I've got one." He took a pen from his book pack,
gave it to me and I handed it to his mother.
The woman peered at the forms. I showed her where to sign and she scrawled
her name.
"It's just the usual insurance forms," I assured her. She tossed the pen
to one side and I retrieved it, giving it back to Andy. As I gathered the
papers together I asked, "Are you coming tomorrow for opening day?"
"No," she told me. "I have to work."
"That's too bad. Well, I want you to know that I'm very glad Andy's on our
team. He's a fine boy, and a wonderful player. You must be very proud of
him."
The heavy woman gave me a look. "Baseball!" she snorted. "That's all I
hear about day and night! It's all he does. I can't get any work out of
him. He about drives me crazy with that ball he keeps bouncing off the
side of the trailer."
I smiled at her politely. "I guess he practices a lot then."
The fat woman made an angry gesture. "All the time, all year round. It's
all he does. He says he wants to be a professional. I keep telling him
he's too short. Whoever saw a short ballplayer?"
"Well, size isn't everything," I told her.
Andy was tugging at my arm again. I turned and he led me into the back
where he opened a door that looked like it was made of cardboard with a
wood grain printed on it.
"My room," he said, and looked up at me.
The room was tiny. There was barely enough space inside for the narrow bed
and the door could only be opened about three quarters of the way. Every
square inch of wall was covered by baseball pictures. There were posters,
pictures cut from magazines and newspapers, and one small framed photograph
of a team of small boys, nine or ten years old, in green and white baseball
uniforms. They were holding a long sign that read "League Champions" and
in front, on the ground with a boy sitting to either side of it, was a
large trophy. The boy sitting on the right was Andy.
Next to the bed, an upturned cardboard box served as a nightstand and its
top was jammed with items. Five baseball trophies lined the back edge
along the wall, two baseballs covered with signatures were arranged in
front and there were several stacks of baseball cards. On the edge of the
box, close to the bed, was a small night light in the shape of a baseball
player. Next to it was a book I recognized, "Trouble At Second Base", one
of a series of sports books written for boys.
Andy handed me one of his trophies so I could look at it. I read the
little engraved plaque on its base and nodded in admiration. It was the
trophy he had gotten for being on the 11-12 All Star Team the previous
season.
"Nice," I said, giving it back to him.
Andy took the trophy, eyed it proudly and then carefully arranged it with
the others so they all made a neat row. He ducked down and pulled a flat
box from under his bed, reached inside and took out a cheap photo album,
the kind Wal-Mart sells for a few bucks. He sat on his bed, indicating
that I was to sit next to him. There was just enough space for me to fit.
The room was so small I had to come in sideways.
The boy opened his album and showed me his pictures. They were all from
past baseball seasons; both team photos and individual portraits, as well
as numerous candid shots. Andy's first T-ball pictures were there and I
suppressed a smile looking at the rows of little boys, all staring solemnly
into the camera. A baseball card picture showed a grinning eight-year-old
Andy holding his bat.
The pictures continued through the 9 and 10-year-old coach pitch league.
There was another team photo of the group in green and white uniforms, with
Andy standing proudly in the front center holding his glove. More pictures
from the 11 and 12 league followed, including a page or two of candid
photos from some trip their All-Star team had taken. Andy was in each of
the shots and the boys all appeared to be having fun. I recognized a few
faces I seen on teams in our 13 and 14 league during my casual scouting.
"This is nice, Andy," I told him. "You've done a beautiful job putting
this all together. It looks like you guys had a lot of fun on your
All-Star team."
He nodded. "It was neat." Then he stared up at me. "Coach, on our
All-Stars this year, they have to take at least one player from each team,
don't they?"
"Yeah," I said. "At least one."
"Even if the team sucks?" Andy persisted.
I smiled. "Yeah, even if they suck. But I don't think we'll be that bad."
Andy ignored that. He put a small hand on my arm and stared up into my
eyes. "I want to be your All-Star pick, Coach."
I met his gaze with the same solemn look he was giving me. The boy
deserved to be taken seriously. "I'll make All-Star picks based on
performance during the season. You're doing real good in practice. If you
do just as well in games you'll definitely be one I'll recommend."
"Even if I'm just 13?" The boy asked anxiously.
"Age won't matter," I told him. "It's what you do that counts."
Andy kept his eyes on mine. "I'm gonna' be your best player, Coach."
I smiled at him fondly and patted his knee. "I hope so, Andy. Because I
happen to like you a lot. You get some rest tonight and show me what you
can do tomorrow. Have you got your uniform all clean and ready? We're
taking team pictures in the morning. You can start a whole new page in
your scrapbook."
The boy nodded. "I'm ready. I ironed my stuff last night."
"Okay..." I got up carefully and eased out of his room. "I appreciate you
showing me your pictures. I enjoyed it. And be careful riding to the
field tomorrow on that old wreck of yours."
"I will be," he promised.
I said good night to Andy's mother and drove home trying to think of ways I
could help Andy and spend more time with him.
Opening Day started out well. It was a pleasant, warm spring morning with
the sun out amid fluffy clouds. The weather report called for rain later
in the day but there was no sign of any as I pulled up to the field in my
truck at 10 o'clock.
Most of my team had already arrived, and in the next few minutes the rest
were dropped off by their parents. Our kids looked great in their clean
uniforms. The photographer came up to me, asking if we were ready to take
the team pictures and I double-checked my roster.
"Where's Andy?" I asked Benjy.
He shook his head. "I haven't seen him." The rest of the boys with him
all started looking around.
"Has anyone seen Andy?" I called out.
No one had and it was apparent that Andy was not there.
My heart beat nervously. Maybe Andy had quit. Or maybe he hadn't liked
the way I had touched him. A host of unpleasant possibilities flooded my
mind.
"Look," I told the photographer. "We're missing one boy. I'm sure he'll
be here. Why don't you start doing the individual shots and save the group
picture for last? By the time you finish he'll probably have gotten here."
Every boy on the team was supposed to get three pictures; one team photo
and two baseball cards, one fielding and one batting. I got the kids lined
up and the picture taking began. Meanwhile I was watching anxiously for
Andy, considering if I should go across the highway, find a phone and call
his house.
I was getting ready to do just that when, to my enormous relief, I saw him
trudging up the rutted service track by the snack bar pushing his bike. I
ran over, calling, "Andy, where have you been? I've got the photographer
all..."
The front wheel of Andy's bike was crooked, the boy's uniform was scuffed
and his pants were torn and bloody over his right knee.
"Dammit!" I swore under my breath. Andy was limping slightly and when I
knelt in front of him I saw streaks of tears on his face.
"What happened?"
"My bike, Coach," he said in a pathetic little voice. "My bike. The chain
broke an' I wrecked. It's all messed up. I hurt my knee..."
I moved my hands over him. "Did you hit your head?" I asked anxiously.
"Does anything else hurt?" I was feeling him all over. Nothing seemed
broken.
Andy shook his head miserably. "The picture, Coach. My uniform's all
messed up for the picture."
I picked him up and hugged him, letting his bike fall to the ground. "The
hell with the picture!" I said holding him tight. "I can get 1 million of
those for you. The important thing is that you're all right."
I told some boys who had followed me over to put Andy's damaged bike over
by my truck. Then I carried the boy to the scorer's stand behind the
backstop at home plate where we kept a first aid kit and waved for the rest
of my team to join us.
"Stand around him," I told the boys. "Make a wall. Give us some privacy
so I can fix Andy's knee."
The kids all closed in, making a private little space for us and I pulled
down Andy's pants to clean his knee with peroxide and examine it. He had
scraped it badly and I felt all around the joint with my fingertips scared
of finding worse, but after moving his lower leg back and forth a bit I
heaved a sigh of relief. Nothing felt broken. I sprayed the cuts and
scrapes with antiseptic, wrapped the knee with gauze and then pulled Andy's
baseball pants back up carefully, smoothing the cloth over the bandage.
"Okay," I told him. "Tuck your shirt in. I think you'll be all right."
"Coach, what about my pictures?" Andy said anxiously.
"Don't worry. I got a plan."
With help from one of the team mothers I got Andy cleaned up and took the
boy over for his photos. The photographer nodded as I explained the
problem of the torn pants.
"Here's what we do," he told Andy, "For your batting picture I'll use a
three-quarter close-up. That means the torn spot on your knee won't show.
Then for the fielding pose and the group photo you can be kneeling down, so
it won't show there either. You'll see. It'll be fine."
He got Andy posed and took the shots. By the time we were ready for the
group photo Andy was still limping, but feeling a lot better. He knelt
down in the middle of the first row, next to his schoolmate, Benjy, smiling
happily. That team picture turned out very well. I still have it. It is
in front of me now as I write.
We played in the first game that Opening Day, against an opponent that was
not one of the best teams, so I had hopes we might beat them. We did not.
The final score was 7-2, but it would have been a lot worse if the other
coach had not used his substitutes. Out on the field, the direct
comparison of my kids with the others right in front of me, I had my eyes
opened to the kind of team I was coaching.
Their pitchers threw hard, mine could not. Their fielders moved with a
confidence mine lacked. Their runs scored off solid hits. Ours came
because of walks and errors.
That is not to say that my boys did not try hard. Every one of them did
his very best and we made some good defensive plays. The difference was in
the little things. We could make a defensive play if the ball came right
to us, but if my kids had to move very far to get it, the batter would get
on base. Plays that should have been backed up were not. Players would
not always be covering their positions. Any error or mistake threw our
whole infield into confusion.
But it was not the problems on defense that cost us the game. The other
team made their share of mistakes, too. The decisive difference was in the
pitching and hitting.
Even though our opponent was a mediocre team, they had pitchers who could
throw hard and fast. My pitchers had to struggle not to walk batters and
served up slow offerings that got hit all around the field by the other
team. Their pitchers chalked up inning after inning of no-hit ball. My
boys made contact, but only two managed to get the ball out of the infield.
Andy was one of them. Because of his hustle and ability I had him batting
second in the order and each time he came up he stood in fearlessly and
made contact, swinging as well as he could. But he simply lacked the
weight and strength to power the ball. Unless he hit it perfectly the best
he could do were choppers and rolling grounders to the infield. Even when
he hit the ball well he was at a disadvantage because his legs were too
short to run fast. He did get one shot past the second baseman, a solid
single that was misplayed in the outfield so Andy rounded the base and
tried for second. A bigger faster boy would probably have reached, but
Andy had to retreat to first once the right fielder corralled the ball and
threw it in.
Despite his small size there was nothing wrong with his work on defense.
He scurried around in left field like a little dervish, making up for his
lack of height and speed with heads-up play, hustle and good positioning.
It was interesting to watch him work. He was never still, always moving
with every batter, every situation and every pitch.
Andy knew how to back up plays. I had my two best 14-year-old veterans,
Chris and Ronny, playing shortstop and third base. They were capable of
doing a fair workmanlike job on most of the balls that came their way, but
if anything got past them, Andy was right there. Nothing at all got past
him. And once he had the ball he always knew what to do with it. He never
threw the ball away or threw behind the runner - and you could bet all your
savings that every throw he made would come in dead on line accurate.
None of it was natural. Just as in practice, his movements were all just a
little mechanical, the result of hundreds of hours of practice and not
inborn ability. Nevertheless, the results were the same. He was a
disciplined, well-drilled little player, and anyone could see that he was
giving his heart and soul to the game.
I particularly liked the way he cheered and encouraged the other players.
He was not a loud or very talkative boy; Andy lacked the physical presence
and personality to be a leader. But in his pleasant quiet way, when he did
say something, it was always upbeat and complementary. He never got down
on anybody.
As for myself, I was trying hard to stay upbeat. It was frustrating to
stand in the third-base coaching box and watch batter after batter go to
the plate and either strike out or hit grounders and pop flies to the
infielders. It seemed so inexplicable. My players looked exactly like the
boys on the other team; same age, same size... swings that appeared the
same... But one set of boys could hit and the other could not. By the end
of the game I knew it was going to be a long season.
I was careful to hide my disappointment. In the dugout, after the teams
had shaken hands, I emphasized all the good defensive plays the boys had
made and told them I would see them on Monday for practice.
"Hotdogs and a soda at the snack trailer on me," I told them and that
lifted the mood. All the boys left the dugout looking reasonably happy. I
was going to ask Andy to stay behind to help me with the equipment, but he
was already doing it without my saying anything, putting bats and helmets
away as the other boys left. I rolled up the catcher's gear and put it in
one of the bags.
"You played very well today, Andy," I told him.
The boy glanced over at me. "I only got one hit."
I nodded. "Right. Hitting's a weak spot for you right now. Not because
your swing is bad," I assured him. "It isn't. In fact I think it looks
real good. It's..." I hesitated. I was not quite sure how to phrase what
I wanted to say without hurting his feelings.
"It's 'cause I'm small," Andy said bitterly.
"Well... Yeah, that's part of it. But size isn't the factor a lot of
people make it out to be." I gave the boy an encouraging nod. "You and I
are gonna' go to work and we'll show 'em a thing or two!"
Andy looked at me with interest.
"Let's get this stuff into the truck," I told him.
The boy tried to pick up one of the heavy bags himself and was starting to
drag it across the floor of the dugout before I gently stopped him.
"Take it easy, Champ. We don't need the star outfielder lugging equipment
bags around. Let the manager do his job."
I picked up both bags and walked with them out to the parking area with
Andy limping alongside, favoring the scraped knee.
"What time do you have to be home?" I asked.
He shrugged. "It doesn't matter. My mom won't be home 'til late."
"What about lunch and dinner?" I said. "Who fixes them for you?"
"I do it myself."
Andy's damaged bicycle was lying on its side in the grass next to my truck.
After tossing the equipment bags into the back I picked the bike up and
examined the bent front wheel. The broken chain dangled off the greasy
sprocket. I noted that the front forks were also twisted.
"You must have crashed pretty hard."
"I went into that big ditch by the side of the road."
I swore under my breath. "Lucky you weren't killed." I muttered, placing
the wrecked bike on top of the bags.
"Come on, Champ," I told the boy. "Climb in."
Andy got into the passenger seat and I slid behind the wheel to get the
vehicle started. After maneuvering out of the parking area and into
Saturday midday traffic, I reached for Andy and the boy slid over on the
seat. I put my hand on the torn cloth of his baseball pants and felt the
gauze bandage covering his knee.
"How's this doin'? I saw you limping a few times when you didn't think I
was looking. Don't try to fool me like that."
Andy looked up quickly with a very slight smile. It was the first time I
had ever seen him do that.
"It hurts a little, Coach. But not real bad."
"Uh-huh." Very gently I felt all around the boy's knee, probing tenderly.
"Straighten your leg out."
Obediently, Andy extended his leg as far as he could in the foot well while
I moved my hand around and re-convinced myself that the delicate little
joint was undamaged except for the cuts and scrapes.
"Okay," I said. Andy relaxed his leg and I stroked his thigh savoring the
feel of smooth rounded firmness beneath the cloth. The boy wiggled even
closer on the seat so he could lean against my side and spread his legs.
My hand went along the inside of his thigh into his groin. Beneath the
uniform Andy was naked except for his little jock. As the edge of my palm
pushed up on his crotch a hard boy stick strained against it.
"Where we going?" He asked.
"To take care of this bicycle problem," I told him.
Andy twisted his head around to look up at me and I gave the hardness in
his groin a gentle squeeze. "Just relax and let me take care of this."
The boy settled back. He did not say anything, but shifted his position
slightly to spread his legs open farther. I stroked and massaged his firm
muscular thighs and rubbed the bulging crotch.
A few miles down the highway I turned into the parking lot of a small strip
mall with five stores. The largest was a bicycle shop and after leaving
the truck in a spot by the front I carried the twisted bike frame into the
shop with Andy in his baseball uniform right behind me. A young man in
shorts with a long ponytail and John Lennon glasses hurried over to greet
us.
"Wow..." He peered at Andy's old frame. "What happened?" Then he looked
closer. "That's not one of ours."
"No," I told him. "He wrecked this morning on the way to his game."
The young man squatted down and examined the bike, shaking his head. "I
don't think we can fix this. The front forks are twisted and cramped.
Even if we could, it would cost more than this frame is worth."
"Yeah, I thought so." I looked at Andy. The boy was paying no attention
to us, instead craning his neck to stare at the racks of colorful new bikes
lining the walls and hanging from the ceiling. I knelt down next to him
and he looked at me.
"Andy, your old bike's totaled and it's probably a good thing. It was old
and it wasn't safe. I should've told your mother about it three weeks ago
when I first saw it. It's my fault that I didn't. Now - you have to have
a bike and I want it to be a good safe one. Pick out the one you want."
The boy stared. It was always hard to read Andy's expression but for just
an instant I know I caught a look of gratitude and love. He hesitated.
"Come on," I said, smiling. "You're my top 13-year-old draft pick. You're
one of the best players on my team. If you get hurt riding some cheap bike
to practice our season's over. Now pick out something you like so your
coach can get it for you."
"Any one I want?"
"Well..." There were some very expensive bikes in that store. "Tell you
what," I said with a grin at the boy. "Try not to go too far over $200."
Andy's eyes widened slightly.
"Go ahead, Champ," I told him softly, patting his butt. "Let me get this
for you."
The boy wandered around slowly, accompanied by the young salesman and I got
out of the way. I wanted this to be Andy's choice. Like a lot of boys his
age, Andy was knowledgeable about bikes. He asked intelligent questions
and his final choice pleased me enormously. The bike he picked was a
mongoose mountain bike in red and black, sturdy enough so he could do
tricks with it, but with a rugged frame, good tires, brakes and gears for
getting back and forth to school and the baseball fields.
The bike came with several different brake and gearing options. I
encouraged Andy to pick out the ones he liked and also smiled and nodded at
some fancy decals he pointed to.
"You get whatever you want, Champ."
"Will your son need a lock?" The salesman asked.
I put my arm around Andy's shoulders and hugged him. "He'll need one. Get
him the best."
The final bill was closer to $300 then $200, but I wrote the check gladly.
It was worth it just to see the happy look in the boy's eyes.
The salesman rang everything up and then said, "It'll take a few hours for
us to set the bike up."
"No problem," I told him. "We'll go get lunch and come back. Get rid of
that old frame for me, will you?"
The young man assured me that everything would be taken care of and held
the door as Andy and I left.
The boy got into the truck without a word. As soon as I was settled behind
the wheel and had the engine started he slid over to my side and leaned
against me while I put an arm around his shoulders.
"Excellent choice, Andy. I'm proud of you."
He gave me a quick look and then reached up to take hold of the arm I had
around him.
"Happy?"
Andy nodded. "Thanks Coach."
"Good. Let's get something to eat."
I headed to a Subway sandwich shop so we could grab lunch, and Andy, who
was a slow methodical eater, took his time there, but nothing was left of
his turkey and Swiss sub when he was done. Even the crumbs were gone.
"Still hungry?" I asked. "I can get you another half a sandwich."
"Okay."
I went to the counter, got it for him and then watched as he ate it with
satisfaction.
"Are you hungry a lot?" I asked.
The boy nodded.
"That's because you're growing," I told him, seizing on this as a positive.
"I see all the signs of it. You're gonna' get bigger. Tour legs have
already started."
After we finished, I drove him to the large mall where a sporting goods
store sold equipment to our league. Inside I showed a salesman Andy's torn
uniform pants.
"I want to replace these," I told him and then said to Andy, "You can use
these old ones for practice."
The salesman helped us get a new pair in the correct size and while we were
at it I also had him find me three new small jocks so Andy would have more
than just one. At the counter, getting everything totaled, I felt a tug on
my arm and looked down. Andy was next to me holding up a nice Louisville
slugger aluminum bat. I checked that it was the right size for him and
winked.
"You like this, slugger?"
The boy nodded.
"It's yours. And get some baseballs, too. The major-league ones."
He scurried off and came back with two gleaming new baseballs, which I
added to the pile of things on the counter. Afterward, walking out to the
truck with our purchases, I put my arm on the boy's shoulders and said,
"That bat's just the right thing for you, Champ. It's way better than
those ratty old ones in the equipment bags."
Andy looked up at me and nodded happily.
Back at the bike store the young man with the ponytail had the mongoose
parked just inside the front door, frame gleaming in its red paint and
bright decals that Andy had picked out. The salesman and I watched Andy
try it in the parking lot where he peddled around happily doing sharp turns
and a few quick stops to check gears and brakes.
"Everything working okay?" I asked when he stopped next to me.
He nodded, staring up into my face.
"Happy?" I stroked his shoulders.
He nodded again and gave me his little smile.
We loaded the bike carefully into the back of my truck and the salesman
handed me the receipt.
"Is your son going to be riding every day?"
"Sure," I said, nodding. "School and his baseball practices."
"Then you should bring the bike back next week. We'll check it over and
tighten everything. There's no charge for that."
"Right," I promised and turned to Andy. "We have a game next Saturday.
We'll bring it over then. Don't let me forget."
"I won't," Andy said.
We climbed into the truck and while I joined the highway traffic, now up to
full Saturday afternoon volume, Andy turned several times to check on his
bike to be sure it was riding safely in the pickup bed and then slid over
on the seat. Pulling my arm around his shoulders, he leaned against me
comfortably and spread his legs. With his small hand he pulled mine down
onto his thigh and twisted his head around so he could look at me.
"Thanks, Coach."
I smiled at him. "You bet, Champ. I'm gonna' feel a lot better knowing
you're safe riding around now."
I stroked his firm rounded legs, pushing my hand further and further up
into his groin. Andy's hard little rod was bulging his jock and I pushed
against it with my palm, rubbing and stroking. The boy's head arched back
and his lips parted. A moment later I felt his warm hand moving back and
forth on my own thigh, stroking gently.
"Where we goin' now?" He asked.
"To my house for a while."
The boy shifted against me. I felt his butt tighten and the rigid hardness
under his jock pushed up against my hand. He reached down and pulled the
waist of both pants and jock away from his firm tummy.
"You can go down there," he whispered.
I glanced around. "I better not, Andy. There's cars right next to us.
Someone might see. Wait till we get home."
He nodded and I continued to rub and stroke him through his clothes while
we drove across town to my neighborhood. Once we got near my house I took
the garage door opener from the glove compartment and keyed it, so the door
was open when we pulled into the driveway. We drove directly into the
garage and another click rolled the big double door down behind leaving us
in the dark safe from view. I leaned over to put the remote opener away
and then put an arm around Andy.
"Now it's safe."
The boy nodded. Lifting up, his thumbs went under the waist of the
baseball pants and he pushed pants and jock down to his knees. There was a
gleam of bare hips and thighs in the dim light as Andy sprawled back
against me and I reached down, taking his thick little boy stick in my
fingers. With my other hand I pulled at the edge of his uniform T-shirt
and Andy pushed it up to expose his firm abdomen and slender chest. He
wiggled around until he was lying with head and shoulders on my lap, his
hard compact body almost naked on the seat and rigid boner jutting up out
of his groin. I rubbed the stiff shaft firmly, stroking thumb and
forefinger up and down its slick skin and with my other hand I caressed the
silkiness of the boy's chest and belly.
Andy had almost no body fat. I could feel every rib and muscle as I
caressed his lean young form and the boy arched his head back squeezing his
butt tight to swell his thick stiffy against my fingers. I felt it throb
and he squirmed, arching in tension. Then his hips thrust and he moaned
softly.
I slowed my stroking rhythm, rubbed my other hand tenderly over the boy's
slender chest and sides and whispered, "Let's go inside."
Andy pulled up his pants and we got out of the truck. I had Andy take his
cleats off before we went into the kitchen through the connecting door.
The big master bedroom was off the kitchen and Andy followed me there,
watching as I closed the door.
I picked him up and set him on the end of the king-sized bed, telling him
softly, "Go ahead and take your pants off."
Andy pushed his pants down again and I helped him slide the tight uniform
off over his leggings and the bandage I had wrapped around his knee. The
boy's naked thighs were firm and well defined. I stripped off the leggings
exposing his smooth calves with their graceful swell of muscle and then
gently caressed his delicate feet while Andy leaned back, the pouch of his
jock bulging.
When I straightened up the boy raised his arms so I could slip off his
baseball shirt, tossing it aside. Andy sat in front of me naked except for
his jock. I knelt down in front of him and examined the gauze dressing on
his right knee.
"This thing is all stuck to the cuts," I said, probing gently with my
fingers. From the medicine cabinet in the bathroom I got a bottle of
hydrogen peroxide and brought it along with a towel.
"Let's try to get that thing off."
Kneeling again I spread the towel under the boy's leg and soaked the
bandage with peroxide, which foamed when it hit the crusted gauze.
"Let that sit a few minutes," I told the boy.
I recapped the peroxide bottle, put it on the floor and sat down on the
edge of the bed next to Andy, gently stroking his firm back and slender
shoulders. Then I eased him down on the bed. The boy put his hands behind
his head and stretched sensually, closing his eyes while I brushed
fingertips over his tiny nipples and the slight swellings of muscle in his
chest. My hand glided into his sensitive armpits and down his sides,
caressing the warm silky skin. Then I stroked onto the satiny stomach,
feeling the hard planes of muscle before pushing a forefinger into Andy's
belly button. I pressed firmly and the boy stretched, arching up against
my wiggling finger, arms strained back and his butt squeezed tight. He
spread his thighs and gave a soft moan.
I kept stroking Andy's smooth silky body moving my hand in slow circles,
sliding it lower and lower until my fingers were brushing over the elastic
waist of his jock. Andy sucked in his stomach as far as he could to allow
my hand under the wide band and I slid it down, letting his thick little
boner rub between my fingers. The boy tightened his butt again, arching
and stretching as his thighs strained apart.
For several minutes I rubbed and stroked Andy as he writhed on the bed and
then I pulled my hand out from under his jock and circled my palm on his
small taut waist. Very gently I tickled him and was rewarded by a smile
and little giggle. His eyes opened.
I helped him sit up and knelt down in front of him, tugging carefully at
the gauze wrap.
"I think I can get this off now."
Bit by bit I unwrapped the bandage. There were a few spots where the
cotton strands had glued themselves to his cuts and I know it hurt him when
I had to pull them loose, but the boy bore the discomfort stoically. I
cleaned the knee off with more peroxide, applied antiseptic ointment to the
deeper cuts and scrapes, and then covered them with a fresh gauze pad and
wrap.
"There you go," I told him. "That's gonna' take a while to heal and it's
gonna' be sore. You'll have to do the best you can in practice for a
while."
Andy shrugged. "I'll be okay, Coach."
I sat next to him with my arm around his bare shoulders. "You will be,
Andy. But I don't like to see you hurt, so I want you to be careful, okay?
And from now on, if you're hurting in a game I want you to tell me. Don't
try to hide it. I'm your coach. You've got to trust me. I promise I
won't take you out of the game for any little thing. Trust me to do what's
best for you."
Andy looked up at me. "Okay."
I stroked my fingertips over the scar on his left side and asked gently,
"What happened here, Champ?"
Andy stared straight ahead without speaking. I hugged him and said, "You
don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
I stroked his back some more and then told him, "Come on, I'll show you the
exercises I want you to do."
He shot me an interested glance and we both got up. Pulling the soft quilt
off the bed, I spread it on the floor for him. "Get on your back."
I taught him how to do a back arch. "It'll develop your upper body," I
told him. "You know, chest and shoulders. We'll use it to get more power
into your swing."
I had him do five sets of ten and he was tired at the end, sinking onto the
quilt with his knees sagging apart. I was kneeling beside him and I rubbed
his tummy.
"Twice every day," I told him. "And if it goes right we'll add a few other
things too. But let's start with this and see how you do."
Andy nodded. He stretched his arms and head back as I continued to stroke
his body and I felt him tighten his butt. Hooking fingers under the waist
of his jock I slowly pulled it down and Andy lifted so I could slide the
elastic off the jutting mounds of his butt. I worked the small supporter
down to his knees and held it while the boy pulled his legs out one by one.
With the jock tossed aside I gazed lovingly at the naked boy sprawled in
front of me, his smooth, compact young body gleaming like oiled marble. He
was completely hairless and from the middle of his smooth groin the stiff
shaft of his erect boyhood strained upward, the circumcised tip quivering
with every heartbeat. He was still immature, but the small tight scrotum
was partly descended and there were subtle signs of growth in his legs.
I stretched out next to the nude boy, taking his quivering boner in my
fingers to stroke firmly, letting my fingertips slide up the engorged shaft
and brush over the sensitive slit. Andy stretched, squeezing his butt and
twisting his hips, his knees straining apart. He made a tiny sound of
pleasure.
For a long time I rubbed and caressed the boy, sometimes stroking his chest
and belly or gliding a palm up a velvety inner thigh to his groin so my
fingertips could brush over his tight little scrotum. Now and then I would
probe into the crease of his butt and press on the opening, making Andy
writhe and arch. Then my fingers would return to his rigid boy stub and
rub firmly again, taking the rhythm faster and faster as the boy squeezed
to swell his hardness, moaning softly.
At last I felt him tense and then his hips thrust in spasm. A tiny bead of
clear fluid sparkled on the tip of his straining boy rod. Andy arched up,
caught his breath in a little gasp of pleasure, "Uh!" Then his rigid
member throbbed in a series of quick pulsing contractions. Droplets of
slippery liquid rolled from his tip down over my stroking fingers,
lubricating them so I could pump even faster. The boy gave another gasping
cry, "Uhhhhh!" his lean body arching in tension, and then his engorged,
steel hard shaft throbbed rapidly again before he collapsed, shuddering,
onto the quilt.
Gradually I slowed the rhythm of my stroking. The boy was panting, his
knees sagging apart. I stroked his hips and thighs gently and then
straightened his legs, rolling his compact body against mine to hold him,
petting tenderly, and Andy rested his head against my chest. Arms around
me, he pressed sweetly.
"Andy," I whispered softly. "Andy..."
I stroked his back and shoulders very slowly, loving the feel of his firm
smooth body. For a long while I simply held the boy, caressing him and
whispering endearments.
Eventually I tickled very gently and with a squirm Andy giggled.
"Time to think about getting you home, Champ," I whispered.
Andy shook his head.
"When does your mom come home?"
"Not till late," he whispered back.
"How 'bout your supper?"
The boy shrugged. I kept stroking him and when I said, "I'll take care of
you," he nestled closer and hugged.
I caressed and cuddled him for a while longer, rubbing his back and cupping
his silky butt with my palms. The smooth mounds of his muscular butt
cheeks were perfectly rounded and Andy flexed them for me, making them jut
outward as I pressed with my hand.
"I'm strong there," he whispered proudly.
I stroked a finger down the crease between the firm mounds and Andy hugged
tight. He pulled his leg up onto my hip, lifted the knee to open himself
and my forefinger slid down into his crease. When the tip found his
puckered opening the boy shifted to press his clenched ring on my finger
and then to my surprise made a soft little sound and lifted his face to
mine. His eyes closed as I kissed him and he gave a very faint moan.
I pushed my finger harder against his tight ring and the tip slipped in.
Andy quivered, hugging as his lips pressed to mine. Then as I kissed his
eyes, his nose, and his chin he arched his head back with a tiny gasp,
"Ahh..." I twisted my finger in his ring and kissed the delicate hollows
of his neck.
Finally I slid my fingertip out of his opening and cupped the boy's hard
butt, massaging gently. "Come on, Champ," I told him softly. "I'm gonna'
take you home and get dinner for you. Let's go."
We both got up reluctantly and I helped Andy dress, smoothing his leggings
and torn uniform pants over his bandage. As I pulled his shirt on my hand
brushed over the scar on his side and I let my fingertips rub gently on the
tiny ridge of tissue.
"My mother's boyfriend did that when I was little," Andy told me quietly.
I hugged the boy and kissed his hair. "Is that man still around?"
Andy shook his head. "He's been gone a long time." Then after a pause he
added fiercely, "I stabbed him with a pair of scissors."
I hugged and kissed him again. "Is there anyone hurting you now?"
He shook his head.
"I want you to tell me right away if anybody does."
"I will, Coach," he promised, looking up with an expression that brought a
lump to my throat.
Before I took him out to the truck I made up a package of peroxide,
antiseptic ointment, gauze pads and bandages to take with me. Then I got
Andy settled in the passenger seat. I could tell his knee was beginning to
stiffen up on him.
"That knee is gonna' be a nuisance for a few days," I told him setting the
bag of supplies at his feet. "That's the stuff I want you to use."
On the drive back across town I asked, "What did your mom leave you to
eat?"
He shrugged. "Usually she puts a TV dinner in the refrigerator."
"Okay."
He slid over to cuddle beside me and I stroked him for the rest of the trip
while we talked about baseball and our team. Just before getting to the
turnoff leading to his trailer park I stopped off at a convenience store
and bought some two-liter bottles of Coke.
It was nearly 6 o'clock by the time we reached Andy's trailer. I helped
him unload his new bike and we got it safely locked into his storage shed.
Then we brought his new bat, clothes and the bag of medical supplies
inside.
"The first thing I want you to do is take a shower," I told the boy,
herding him toward the bathroom. I helped him undress and took the bandage
off his knee, which did not stick this time because of the antiseptic
ointment I had used.
"Scrub that knee with soap. I don't care how much it stings!"
"I will, Coach," Andy promised. He stepped into the tiny bathroom and
started the water. While he was in there I called a local pizza place,
told them to deliver two large pies, one sausage one pepperoni, and then
waited for Andy to get done.
When I heard the water stop I opened the door to the bathroom, grabbed a
towel and as Andy stepped out of the shower looking clean and pink I began
drying him off gently. Andy leaned against me while I patted and rubbed,
his boy stick swaying and then lifting into stiff rigidity.
"You're one great kid, Champ," I told him, giving the quivering hardness a
few strokes with my fingertips.
The boy hugged me back.
"Did it sting when you washed that knee?"
He nodded.
"But you did it anyway, didn't you."
"Yes," he whispered.
"You're my brave boy." I hugged him tight and then picked him up, carrying
him the few steps to his bedroom and putting him on the bed.
"Wait right here, Champ."
I got my bag of supplies from the living room, handed them to the boy and
then knelt down. "Show me how you're gonna' bandage that knee."
Andy got the ointment out and spread it on his cuts.
"Use plenty," I told him. "I'll get you more on Monday."
After he had placed a gauze pad over everything, wrapped more gauze around
and tied it neatly I nodded my head. "Good. Keep those cuts and scrapes
clean. I'll be checking at practice on Monday and they better look good!
Now, what have you got to wear tonight?"
Andy reached under his bed and pulled out a shallow cardboard box filled
with clothes that looked ready for a Salvation Army store. While he pulled
on a pair of briefs, worn-out shorts and a T-shirt so faded it was gray, I
checked the other items.
"Is this what you wear to school?" I tried to keep my voice neutral.
Andy shook his head. He started to close his door and I had to squeeze
back out of the way so he could do it. On a hanger behind the door were
the patched pants he had shown me once before when he had them in his book
bag. There were also two shirts only slightly less worn than the ones in
the cardboard box. I examined them and made a mental note of the sizes.
"Okay," I said. "Now, how 'bout some Coke? I assume you guys have ice
here somewhere. We'll slug down some Coke while we wait for your dinner to
come. I assume you like pizza?"
Andy looked at me. "Pizza?" he said hopefully.
"Yeah, I got too big pies coming. Pepperoni and sausage. I hope you like
that."
His eyes widened. "Thanks, Coach."
I squeezed his shoulders in a hug. "Gotta' treat the number one draft pick
right."
We puttered around waiting for the pies. Andy got out ice and glasses and
we sipped Coke while loading his uniform and jock into the laundry. Then
we put his bat, new jocks and the new baseball pants away. By the time the
chores were done the pizzas had arrived. I paid for them and put them on
the kitchen counter.
"Ah!" I said, opening the boxes to release that delicious smell, "You just
can't beat pizza!"
I had noted Andy's big appetite at lunch and now he demonstrated it again,
giving an excellent imitation of a boa constrictor as he devoured nearly an
entire large pizza by himself. It was hard to believe such a small frame
could get itself around all that food.
"Geez, Andy, take it easy!" I said as I saw him reach for yet another
piece. "If you burst it's gonna' make a mess!"
He gave me his little smile, and then took a bite, munching away happily.
He looked very content. When he had finished, he licked his fingers, and
then studied me for a few moments.
"Thanks, Coach."
I patted his shoulder affectionately. "You're welcome, son." Then I
looked around. "So what should we do? How 'bout a movie? What have you
got that's good?"
Andy ran into his room. He came back almost immediately carrying a VHS
cassette of "The Natural" and held it out eagerly.
"Oh yeah!" I said. "Perfect choice. Put it on!"
We watched the movie on the sofa, the boy curled up against me with my
protective arm around him. Sometimes I would give him a little stroke or a
pat and he would turn to smile at me. I could tell that he loved the movie
and I suspect he enjoyed it even more sharing it with me.
When it was over I cleaned up the empty pizza boxes while he rewound the
tape.
"What time is your mom coming home?"
"She comes in late on Saturdays,"
"I don't like leaving you here alone."
"I'll be okay," Andy assured me.
I looked at my watch. It was getting toward 10 o'clock.
"Tell you what," I said. "Why don't you do a set of your back arches and
then get into bed? I'll read to you for a while. At least that way I'll
know you're in bed before I leave."
"Okay," Andy agreed.
He did his exercises on the living room floor for me, his tough little wiry
body arching up over and over as he pushed himself through them. He got
tired, but he finished five sets of 10 and then did a sixth, straining up
for the last few arches to make it.
As he sprawled on the floor afterwards I knelt down and put my hand on his
forehead, gently stroking his hair.
"You've got what it takes, Andy," I whispered softly. "You're a champion.
I saw it the first day I met you. I'm never wrong about that. You're all
heart and courage, son. One in a million. I'm so proud of you."
The boy's eyes flashed and as he gazed up at me I gathered him into my arms
and carried him to his tiny bedroom.
"Where's your pj's?" I asked.
"I just sleep in my underwear."
I smiled. Andy stood in front of me and let me undress him, starting with
the T-shirt, which I slipped off before pulling down his shorts. His tight
briefs were bulging in the crotch. Gently I slid them off his hips and
down past his knees so Andy could step out of them. He stood before me
proudly, displaying his naked body. His thick little boy rod was jutting
out stiffly and Andy thrust his hips, squeezing to make it harden even
more.
When I took him in my arms, kissed him and then reached down to rub firmly
the boy pressed against me in a hug and made a tiny soft sound.
I pulled back the covers of his bed and slid him beneath the sheets.
"Tonight," I whispered. "Why don't you try sleeping naked."
Andy stretched and gave me a little smile. I sat down on the edge of his
bed and got the book "Trouble At Second Base" off the box he used as a
night table.
"Start at the beginning," Andy begged eagerly.
"Okay," I opened to the first page and began...
When I finally left that night Andy's mother was still not home, but the
boy was safe and asleep.
[ To Be Continued In Parts C through J ]
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Hope you enjoyed it! This baseball series has a 'long' short story for
every position. Look for a new chapter or two each month.
Thanks for taking the time to read my story and if you'd like to comment,
my e-mail address is:
hunterjoe45@yahoo.com
I will try to answer all serious mailings. My on-line access is very
limited. Rants and ravings will not get consideration.
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You can find links to all my other stories on Nifty under my name, Joe
Hunter, listed under the J's (for Joe) in the prolific authors list. To
get that list click the Authors tab at the top of the Nifty home page and
then select 'Prolific Authors'. I hope you will read and enjoy!
All the Best. Joe